


From the Diary of Dr. Watson

by sofriel



Category: Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-11
Updated: 2010-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-07 04:39:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sofriel/pseuds/sofriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oscar Wilde's conviction causes turmoil at 221B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Diary of Dr. Watson

**Author's Note:**

> I dedicate my first LJ-posted fic to [](http://resolute-reader.livejournal.com/profile)[**resolute_reader**](http://resolute-reader.livejournal.com/) as a Christmas present (a little late) and a thank-you for helping me out so much! I'll probably still be editing this tomorrow, but I wanted to at least get it posted on Christmas. As a sidenote, whoever thought this rich-text thing would make posting easy was definitely wrong. ETA: AO3 *also* does not seem to want to post this right, so apologies for weird formatting. &gt;.&lt;

 

May 25th. A grey and foggy day. The idea of the weather being of any importance to me at the moment is laughable. I feel at my shoulders a weight that something horrible has occurred, and that I have done a terrible wrongdoing, but I confess that beyond the implications of commonly accepted morality I am more elated than I have perhaps been since the early days of my marriage.

To my great surprise, when I awoke this morning Holmes had already departed, in such a mood that he had left the pot of coffee sitting on the table and a cup of the stuff only half drunk. As I personally cannot abide the taste of coffee since the events of the case of the hounds of Baskerville, when I entered our room and had the unfortunate experience of inhaling the combined scents of two pots of cold coffee and an entire room filled with tobacco smoke, I made for myself a cup of tea and sat down to read the newspaper, waiting for Holmes to return from whatever he had seen fit to attend.

After several hours with still no sign of his return, I opened several unfinished documents which contained the reports of Holmes and my adventures and cases. The sky had become quite dark and I began to contemplate the possible locations to which my friend could have disappeared, but I had no sooner commenced this effort when the man himself opened the door and, only slightly to my concern, collapsed immediately upon the armchair.

I am not accustomed to seeing Holmes in a state other than his usual dispassionate, calculating mask that gives no indication of emotion besides sarcasm and professionalism, or perhaps languid disinterest, but as he unbuttoned his coat, his long fingers trembled a bit.  His face, normally pale due to a vanity of appearance unusual for one so irregular in habit, was positively pallid against his dark hair.

“Good God, Holmes, where is it you’ve been all day?” I asked, growing anxious. When he did not answer me, I pressed on. “I am hardly someone to make a deduction based on appearances, as you have so often told me, but you look horrible.”

“Do you know what happened today, Watson?”

I told him regrettably that I did not.

He put his head in his hands, rubbing his brow before he returned his gaze to mine. In a strange, tight voice, he said, “Oscar Wilde was convicted today.”

I am afraid I had no answer for him other than silence. I had briefly read of the case against Wilde in the newspaper but had ceased due to the reporters’ salacious rumours, but the fact remained that whatever his beliefs, there was little doubt that he was guilty of the crimes of which he was accused. “What does that have to do with your absence?” I queried.

He studied me for more than a few uncomfortable moments before he spoke again. “For several years I attended classes at Oxford,” he began. “It was not terribly long before I came to share these quarters with you.”

“And you were acquaintances?” I speculated, remembering that Holmes and Wilde were of the same age.

The bitter laugh that followed sent a shiver down my spine, and I hope to God I never hear such a self-ironic tone come from my friend again. “We agreed,” said he, “on almost nothing. He is, as I am sure you know from those dreadful articles, an aesthete to the bone. And as for myself, I refuse to do anything without a clear purpose at hand. I have been told our arguments were audible from quite a respectable distance.”

“And yet?”

“Watson”—and here he eyed me with sardonic smile—“have you even any idea for what crime it was that Oscar Wilde was convicted?”

I had a catching of breath as I looked up sharply, and was momentarily rendered unable to speak. “You mean to say,” I commented as I regained some composure, “that—”

My sentence was never completed, because I was struck by the change in my friend’s face, which now looked less sarcastic and more pained as he continued to regard me with a most peculiar expression. It was almost as if he were saddened and entertained by some internal matter, and when he leaned forward and placed a delicate hand atop mine, he let out a small sigh.

“My dear Watson, can you forgive me for my failure to mention this characteristic of mine?” His voice was faintly desperate, and even I, who has scarcely a small portion of detection skills, was able to tell his attempt to keep a hold on control was unsuccessful. “I implore you; I have not intentionally deceived you. Please, do not think badly of me for withholding this from you.”

“Holmes,” I exclaimed, unable to continue watching his abnormal display of emotion, “why should that be of any matter whatsoever for my opinion of you?”

Many things happened in the seconds after I uttered this. Holmes’s hand jumped from my wrist to my face, and his other reached up and became entangled in my hair as his mouth covered mine.  Despite my surprise, I found I had seized his lapels and parted my lips, rather as though my body had divorced itself from my mind. Every fibre within me pressed forward towards him.

Holmes, quite suddenly, released me and turned away, and within seconds he was in the cabinetry, removing a number of things. I stood up after him, a thick feeling clouded my head, and I fell back into my seat before I realized, feeling very foolish, that the sensation was one of near-fainting. Noticing my sudden movement, Holmes rushed over, alcohol and two glasses in hand.

With a flash he filled them and handed one to me, a faint reddish colour spreading across the top of his white face. “My dear Watson, I owe you a thousand apologies,” said Holmes, his voice low and amused but sincere. “This would seem to be the second time I’ve caused you to faint.”

A sip of the drink sent the fog in my head scurrying away, and I chuckled. “Apology? This is hardly the time for that; I have got to be writing Oscar Wilde a thank-you note!”  

There was a tense moment in which I was afraid I had crossed a line in mentioning the source of Holmes's melancholy. But on the contrary, this seemed to finally break the expression of worry still frozen on Holmes's face, and I doubt that I shall soon forget the expression of joy that appeared on his features at those words as he leaned down and kissed me again.


End file.
